There was a sharp knock at the door and Zuri slipped through with the book under one arm, leaning close to murmur in Savine’s ear. ‘A few decisions to be made, my lady. Then dinner with the loose-tongued but tight-fisted Tilde dan Rucksted and her husband. An opportunity to discuss their investment in Master Kort’s canal.’
Savine’s turn to sigh. Another of the lord marshal’s tales of derring-do on the frontier and she might be obliged to drown herself in the canal rather than extend it. But business was business.
Savine’s mother was pouring herself another glass of wine. ‘What is it, darling?’
‘I have to dress for dinner.’
‘Now?’ She stuck her lip out in a needy pout. ‘How bloody tiresome. I was hoping we could talk tonight.’
‘We just did.’
‘Not like we used to, Savine! I’ve a hundred cutting comments just as funny as the last one.’
Savine set down her glass and followed Zuri to the door. ‘Keep them dry for next time, Mother. It’s business.’
‘Business.’ Her mother wiped the drip from the side of the decanter and sucked her finger. ‘These days, you are all business.’
‘Tighter,’ hissed Savine through gritted teeth, fists clenched on her dressing table, and she heard Freid hiss with effort as she hauled on the laces.
It was an informal event, so it only took four of them to dress her. Freid was handling the wardrobe on her own. Lisbit was face-maid, on paint, powder and perfume. Metello – a hatchet-featured Styrian who had once been chief dresser to the Duchess of Affoia – barely spoke a word of common but expressed herself with unmatched eloquence through the medium of wigs. Zuri, meanwhile, attended to book and jewels and ensured that the others did not make a mess of anything all at once.
‘Master Tardiche writes to say the foundry cannot be competitive without another five thousand marks for new machinery,’ she said, meeting Savine’s eye in the mirror.
Savine frowned. ‘I did not care for the way he spoke to me last time he visited. Great tall fellow, declaiming from on high.’ She lifted her chin so Lisbit could lean in, different shades of powder smeared on the back of her hand like an easel, and set to work on her eyelids with the tip of a little finger. ‘Let him know I am selling my share. If he comes grovelling, I might reconsider.’ She gasped as Freid gave another tug at her corset and near dragged her off her feet. ‘Some men just look better on their knees. Tighter, Freid.’
‘Everyone looks better on their knees. It was my favourite thing about attending temple.’ Zuri set the book down to step in, winding the laces tight around her hands and pushing one knee into Savine’s back. ‘Breathe out.’
Savine’s lungs were emptied in a faint groan as Zuri pulled. She might have been slender as a willow switch but, by the Fates, she was strong as a docker. The feeling of constriction was, for a moment, quite terrifying. But great results require great pains.
People liked to think of beauty as some natural gift, but Savine firmly believed that just about anyone could be beautiful, if they worked hard at it and spent enough money. It was merely a question of emphasising the good, disguising the bad and painfully squeezing the average into the most impressive configuration. Very much like business, really.
‘That’s it, Zuri,’ croaked Savine, shifting her shoulders back and letting everything settle. ‘Unless you feel like it’s cutting you in half, it isn’t doing the job. Knots, Freid, before they loosen.’
‘Master Hisselring called.’ Zuri took up the book again. ‘He asks for another extension on his loan.’
Savine would have raised her brows had Lisbit not been in the midst of shaping them. ‘Poor old Hisselring. It would be a shame to see him lose his house.’
‘The scriptures hold much praise for charity. But they also say only the thrifty will enter heaven.’
‘A cynic might observe that the scriptures can be used to support both sides of every argument.’
Zuri had the tiniest smile at the corner of her mouth. ‘A cynic might say that is the point of them.’
When Savine felt herself softening, even for a moment, she found it effective to taunt herself with the things other people had that she did not. At that moment, the fine, rosy blush to Lisbit’s cheek was in her eyeline. It made the girl look like a peasant, but it was fashionable. One can always find some small, irrelevant thing to be jealous of. The moment you lose your murderous edge, after all, could be the moment you lose altogether.
Some might have said that made her self-serving, shallow and poisonous. She would have replied that the self-serving, shallow, poisonous people always seemed to come out on top. Then she would have laughed ever so sweetly, and whispered to Zuri to place a note in the book for their future destruction.
Savine considered her face in the mirror. ‘A touch more blush. And I think I have given Hisselring quite long enough. Call in the debt.’
‘My lady. Then there is Colonel Vallimir, and the mill in Valbeck.’
Savine gave the loudest groan of frustration she could while pushing her lips out for Lisbit’s brush. ‘Still making a loss?’
‘Quite the reverse. He reports a large profit this month.’
Savine could not help glancing sharply around, causing Lisbit to cluck with annoyance as she smudged, then lean in so close to correct it with a fingertip that Savine could smell her oversweet breath.
‘Blessed are the thrifty … does Vallimir explain his sudden success?’
‘He does not,’ said Zuri, slipping a necklace around Savine’s neck so gently she barely felt it. The new emeralds from her man in Ospria. Just the one Savine would have picked.
‘Suspicious.’
‘It is.’
‘We should pay him a visit. Make sure our partners realise that our eyes are always on the details. And we have plenty of other interests in Valbeck. There never was a city so ill-conceived, ill-built and ill-tempered, but there really is a great deal of money to be made there. Zuri, clear a few days somewhere in the next month so you and I can—’
‘I am afraid … I will not be able to accompany you.’ Zuri said it as she did everything. Gently. Gracefully. But very firmly.
Savine stared at her in the mirror, momentarily lost for words. Lisbit swallowed. Metello glanced up from the wig on its stand, comb frozen in her hand.
‘Things in the South are … worse than ever,’ said Zuri, eyes to the floor. ‘Some say the Prophet was killed by a demon. Some say he overcame her and is recovering from the battle. The emperor has been cast down, and his five sons struggle with each other. The provinces declare their independence and look to their own survival. Warlords and bandits spring up everywhere. It is chaos.’ Zuri looked up at her. ‘Ul-Safayn, my family’s home, has become lawless. My brothers are in danger. I have to help them get out.’
Savine blinked. ‘But Zuri … you’re my rock.’
And she was. She was beautiful, tasteful, discreet, spoke five languages, had a refined sense of humour and an effortless mastery of the workings of business, and yet somehow never stole the attention for herself. She would no doubt have held as high a place in Gurkish society as Savine did in the Union’s, had Gurkish society not crumbled into madness, causing refugees to flood across the Circle Sea and dark-skinned ladies’ companions to become so terribly fashionable in Adua.
Since Savine’s father first introduced her, a friendless exile in desperate need of a position, Zuri had made herself indispensable in a dozen ways. But it was more than that. Savine’s acquaintance was immense. A great web of favours, partnerships and obligations that stretched across the Union and beyond. But the truth was she had no friends at all. Apart from the one she paid.